Wrong
by Kindre Turnany
Summary: Wrong is the first thing he feels. Stiles blinks to drive it away, but the slide of lid over eye is wrong. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but behind that he hears the scuttle of a spider across the floor and the flap of feathered wings outside. That can't be right.


Infinite thanks to Nicole (carlathezombie / nikkithedead) and Sasha (sashayingunderthesun / kitsunenotama) for their comments, corrections, and moral support. This having a beta thing is really cool except for how annoying I feel because I kept pestering the both of them. :P

**~.x.~**

_Wrong_ is the first thing he feels. Stiles blinks to drive it away, but the slide of lid over eye is wrong. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but behind that he hears the scuttle of a spider across the floor and the flap of feathered wings outside. That can't be right.

He raises an arm. It jerks too fast into sight between his eyes and the soot-black ceiling. The perspective is right. The arm is not. Stiles studies the veins in the back of the hand. His breathing quickens as his heart races. This isn't possible. That doesn't make it less true or change the unfamiliar shape of the lips he wets with a strange tongue. Panic boils at his core. It shakes him, chokes him. The feel of a panic attack is familiar, not right, but _his_. He sees claws on the hands he controls now and feels heat build behind the eyes.

He takes deep breaths. In then out. In then out. His chest rises and falls, but it's not his chest. Stiles sits up and rests the arms on the knees of the body he's trapped in. _If I'm here, _he thinks, and the voice of his mind is still his own, _Then who is in my body? _Was it a swap or more of a congo line of body switching? Some other party game? Pin the tail on the werewolf?

The hands reach up to feel the face that isn't his—stubble, too-wide jaw, cheekbones all wrong, and a head full of hair—but he wants to be certain before he gives it a name. A collapsed flight of stairs marks the far wall, and Stiles leaps too easily to the next floor. He stands in what's left of the Hale house. Stiles looks for a mirror and finds the reflective door of a wardrobe. The face stares out at him, afraid and confused without its usual defenses. Rightfully, it should belong to Derek Hale.

Stiles needs to fix this, whatever 'this' is outside of a terrible cliché. The eyes in the mirror glow red. He tells them to stop. They don't. No one ever told him how this works—after all, Stiles is human. He looks for something inside him to label 'wolf' and lock away. Stiles feels power and intensity stronger than before, but nothing separate. It's part of him, not a multiple personality trying to take control. He still needs to calm himself.

Slow breaths, in then out. Think of what he doesn't want to tear apart with Derek's teeth: strawberry-blond goddess Lydia Martin, his friends Scott and Allison, his father. The red fades, returns, flickers. Stiles shrugs Derek's shoulders. He doesn't have time for this, so he leaves. The body should be stumbling with his inexperience, but its instincts make up for his brain and carry him through town to his own window. Once there, he slides open the window and hopes for the best. He's inside, or his body is. It stares at him, and that is wrong too. Scott stands near the doorway. Stiles literally smells relief on him. Then he notices his father by Scott's shoulder, eyes darting from face to face.

"Stiles?" His own voice asks at last.

He nods. "Derek?" His body nods back at him. "How?"

"We don't know," Scott says when it's clear Derek would rather pick Stiles' t-shirt than answer. "I called Deaton, but... nothing back yet."

"Stiles," his dad says, heart racing. "It's really you?"

"I'd say, 'In the flesh,' but," he tilts Derek's head, "I guess I'm in Derek's flesh." Stiles realizes what he said and stammers out what he's pretty sure is gibberish.

His father sighs as his heartbeat settles somewhat. "That's him."

Derek snorts, and Stiles is doubly offended because it comes from his own body.

"I've seen this tons of times." Stiles raises Derek's hands in front of him. "We spend a day or two realizing each other's worth and then go back to normal after learning a lesson and breaking a spell."

"Are you high?" Derek asks. "No, I can't get high. Are you deranged?"

"Not as of my last psychological screening." He shrugs, and the pull of leather over Derek's shoulders still feels wrong. When he hears a change in his body's breathing, he stares. "What?" He asks when Derek doesn't explain.

"'What' what?"

"Your breath hitched. Or is it my breath still? Either way, it was going along fine until it wasn't, and I want to know why."

Derek stares out the window. "It's... stupid."

"Out with it." Of course the voice sounds like Derek, but this time it feels like Derek too, growly and demanding.

Stiles watches his own eyes roll as Derek answers, "I just realized I could get high for the first time in my life. Or drunk." His eyes dart to the sheriff. "Or neither." Stiles' fingers tap against Stiles' thigh in an out-of-character fidget from Derek. The sheriff's expression and scent remain stony and sharp, but Derek's attention shifts to Stiles/himself. "Was Isaac or Peter there when you woke?"

"Do you think I'd have run off alone if I had someone to help?"

"Depends on how badly you panicked." Derek shrugs, and Stiles is struck by how insolent his body makes the gesture. "But if you were alone, where are they?" Wide eyes—Stiles' eyes—stare at Stiles like Derek actually expects an answer.

"How should I know?" He growls, not a tone of voice, but a true, rumbling growl. Stiles feels the heat build inside him. "Oh crap." He makes himself breathe, in then out, until it fades. "That was an accident, I promise. How does someone as grumpy as you manage not to wolf out all the time?"

"Anger is my anchor. You'll have to find one too, and quickly." Stiles is distracted by how much that sucks, how it reminds him of the Hulk, and how different his own face looks with that kind of rage in it. When he doesn't reply, Derek speaks again. "I'm—you're their alpha. You should be able to feel them, those two especially."

"Why them?" Scott asks, and Stiles knows he's looking for the space off Derek's alpha radar.

A scowl twists Stiles' face further. He's worn one before but never had to look at it. Stiles tries to imagine it backwards in the mirror, and it isn't as hard as it should be.

"They acknowledge me as their alpha." His scowl slips as he turns to Stiles-in-Derek. "Just try to concentrate on them."

"Could I concentrate on just Isaac because, no offense, but your uncle freaks me out." He goes to rub a hand over his scalp but finds hair to run his fingers through instead. "Besides, don't they have cell phones?"

The sheriff groans. "Stiles, stop arguing. We've tried calling because after Scott's boss, Derek's uncle is your best bet. For the record, we called you too, with no answer." Stiles hears in the stammers of his pulse how strange it is for him to address Derek Hale's body as his son.

"I'm not arguing just to be difficult," Stiles tries to say calmly. It comes out as a shout. "I still don't buy that Peter isn't out to kill us all horribly, by the way, and I'm the research dude. Who figured out there were werewolves? Me. Who found out we'd need a beastiary? Me. Who has Google-fu and a library card powerful enough to find out what's going on right now? Probably also me. I'm under the wrong face to use the card, so I may need Derek's help. Or, no, library cards are free. I'll just get him one." Stiles knows he's babbling, but he's also snarling, pacing, and fighting the frustration overtaking him. Scott moves between Stiles and his body. Stiles might not be able to stop himself from tearing his own throat out. "Derek," he snarls, "Isn't there a 'stop, bad wolf' button in your head somewhere."

Even though Stiles can taste the nervous tang of his sweat, Derek keeps his expression calm and crosses Stiles' arms across his chest. "No." He waits long enough for that to sink in. "You just need to control yourself."

"It's not myself that's the problem. It's the crazy wolf powers."

"Wolves aren't that violent." Stiles hears the tremor in his voice and knows this isn't how Derek teaches. "They hunt to eat and kill to protect the pack. It's _man _who takes power and turns it against other men just because he can. You're dangerous because you're a man, not because you're a wolf. Control yourself, not me."

Stiles has never had much luck controlling himself. With the ADHD, panic attacks, and overwhelming anxiety and worthlessness, his self-control has been shot for years. He looks up from Derek's claws where his own fingernails should be to find his father watching him. He remembers veggie burgers, whiskey, secret discussions over case files, and the sound of his voice calling Stiles a hero. Stiles' father has anchored him since his mother died, and now is no different. He focuses on his father, on protecting him from himself, and the heat abates enough for the claws and fangs to retract.

"You have ADHD," he says to Derek when he can control himself again. "It's why you can't stay still or concentrate." He slides Derek's fingers through Derek's hair and knows by their reactions that no one thought of this yet. "There's Adderall in the medicine cabinet. It'll help some, but everything will still feel wrong." Derek nods and heads for the restroom, avoiding eye contact. Stiles meant to repay the favor, return some self control Derek lost with his body, but Derek seems embarrassed.

"Is that why he's been acting weird?" Scott asks when Derek's gone. "Because he's got your ADHD?"

"He's literally in another person's body. It's weird no matter what. Even talking is weird. His teeth aren't in the right shape, and his tongue doesn't fit between them the way I feel it should since my tongue is the only one I've had before, and this tongue isn't it." Stiles hears Derek returning before he's done speaking but sees no reason to stop.

"Plus," Derek adds, "I've never been human before. It's like being numbed by sensory overload, except it never stops."

"Thanks, Derek, my puny human senses really needed that."

"As terribly exciting as that is," Stiles' dad cuts in, "You were going to try getting your 'puny human senses' back."

"Oh yeah." Stiles goes to his computer but has to pause and adjust his chair because Derek is the wrong height. He starts with too-obvious search words that will lead him to better ones. After he takes the title of the first book he'll check out later, Stiles notices the others haven't moved. "This is probably going to take a while," he says. "Go... look into other leads or do homework or something."

They seem ready to argue but keep quiet because staring at him isn't going to help anything. Then Derek steps forward and ruins it by asking, "What about Peter?"

Stiles groans and drops his head back, expecting it to catch on the back of his chair, but Derek is too tall. At least the emotion still comes across. He closes his eyes and thinks about Peter Hale. Mostly he thinks about how he held Stiles by the wrist and offered him the bite. He expects nothing but instead feels warmth, like a ball of Peter both in his chest and far away. He tries thinking of Isaac too, of playing lacrosse and interrogating the kanima's master together. Isaac's connection isn't stronger, but it is clearer, like open air where dirty glass blocked the way to Peter.

He tells Scott where to find them. "You should, uh, stay," he adds before Derek can carry his body off.

Derek huffs but collapses onto Stiles' bed. "Fine."

Stiles' father nods in approval before leaving with Scott and his sidearm.

"Why does he get to go?" Derek asks when they're gone.

"He's used to being human, and I couldn't have stopped him if I tried." Stiles turns back to the computer and closes three dead-end links before refining his search.

"Stiles," Derek's voice—Stiles' voice under Derek's control—is so soft it sounds timid.

"What?" He wants to snap but stops himself.

"I ne—your body has to..." He looks torn between never saying another word and disappearing into nonexistence. "Bathroom."

"Oh my God." Stiles buries Derek's face in his hands to hide his expression. "Just go, and we'll never speak of it again." Stiles' face is beet red when Derek rushes it from the room, and Stiles knows Derek's is the same. No one can see it though, so he turns back to his computer and tries not to hear anything from the restroom.

Hours pass before Stiles admits defeat. Not even the book titles seem promising. Derek is on his bed, flipping randomly though books Stiles already purchased, borrowed, or, in one case, stole. By the way he's mistreating the books, he's either frustrated he can't find anything or freaking out because he literally cannot focus the way he's used to.

"What's taking them so long?" Derek snaps.

It _has_ been too long. They should have at least called or texted by now. He grabs his cell phone off the desk and dials his father's number, then Scott's, Isaac's, and Peter's. He calls Derek's just to prove his phone is working and answers it himself since this time he knows the call isn't for Derek.

"Find them like you did earlier," Derek commands.

Stiles closes his eyes to concentrate on Peter Hale. He feels an echo of the man in his chest. It reaches out to—

"He's here." Now that he knows to listen, Stiles hears Peter creeping through the kitchen. "Trying not to be noticed, and I think he just heard me." Peter's not creeping anymore.

"Stiles, run!" Derek shouts, eyes wide and heart pounding. "He's going to kill you."

It takes Stiles too long to connect Peter sneaking to killing an alpha to himself in Derek's body. Peter crashes into him, snarling as Stiles stares dumbfounded at his own panicked face.

"Fight him off," his voice screams at him.

Stiles snarls because how is he supposed to do that—but he has claws now. He lashes out and leaves his mark behind in torn skin and spilling blood. He catches Peter's arm as it swings at him. Peter is strong, but Stiles is stronger.

"Still think you don't want the bite?" Peter asks.

Stiles growls and claws at Peter's throat. Peter rams his feet against Stiles' chest to propel them both backward. He hits the floor in a roll and comes to his feet in time to tackle Stiles before he regains his footing. Stiles struggles but can't move.

"You've only survived this long because I misread the fine print, subsection: side effects." He smirks. "You're not really a werewolf; what hope do—"

A baseball bat crunches into his skull. The bat swings down again to bash the left side of his face in while Stiles gapes. On the third downswing, Stiles catches the bat and waits while Derek stares, panting, at his uncle.

"Do you even play baseball?" Derek asks when his breathing steadies. He drops the bat.

Stiles shakes his head. "It was a gift from Scott. Inside joke." He hears Peter struggle to breathe. "He's still alive."

Derek nods. "I wonder if he'd come back again."

This time Stiles hears when someone enters the house, and he warns Derek. They face the door together to find Deaton entering.

Deaton gestures to Peter. "He should have something around his neck."

Under Peter's shirt collar, Stiles finds a leather chord holding a pouch. He pulls it off. "Like this?"

"Exactly like that." Deaton takes the pouch and sprinkles a dark powder inside. "I suggest you lie down for this."

They settle side-by-side on Stiles' bed, fixing their eyes on Deaton. He strikes a match and holds its flame beneath the pouch. Stiles' senses cloud as it smokes.

_Wrong_ is the first thing he feels. Stiles blinks to drive it away as Derek sits up beside him, rubbing his face. The slide of lid over eye is wrong, but years as Stiles override hours as Derek. Stiles raises an arm above his head, and it's his own this time. It drags into view and Stiles remembers he doesn't have to compensate for werewolf speed. He grins because it's good to be himself.

"You should hurry," Deaton says as they pull themselves off the bed. "Scott and the sheriff ran into trouble looking for Peter. They could use some help."

"I never get a break, do I?" Stiles asks as he dives for his car keys.

"Who is it?" Derek's question is more practical, but Stiles thinks it has less personality.

"Gerard Argent. Or it used to be."

"Does no one stay dead?" Stiles taps Derek's arm. "I brought you over on foot, so I'll drive."

Stiles thinks Derek will argue, but he shrugs and follows instead. Behind them, Deaton moves toward Peter. Stiles hopes he never finds out why.

"I don't always get to save the day twice," Stiles notes as he starts up his Jeep.

"_I _saved _you," _Derek huffs.

Stiles rolls his eyes but then turns to Derek with something like a smile. "Thanks for that... and stuff."

Derek snorts.

"No, I'm serious. Thank you."

Derek looks away from Stiles to stare at the dash. "You too."

Stiles thinks about patting Derek on the shoulder but decides he likes his hand where it is. He shifts the Jeep into gear because at this point saving the day is just his thing.

**~.x.~**

****So the Teen Wolf Fan Correspondent Contest rules say I keep the copyright while offering them non-exclusive rights to use or not use this however they please. I am taking this to mean I am perfectly welcome to post it online. As you may have guessed by now, this is the entry I just sent in. :)


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